Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  “I behaved like a jerk.” He ran a hand through his hair and gripped the strands hard before letting go. “And it had nothing to do with your behavior—which incidentally has been above reproach—and everything to do with me and my…issues.”

  Georgia drained her glass and reached for the bottle. With visibly shaking hands, she refilled both their glasses. When she handed him his snifter, he cupped it to warm the liquid within and contemplated the universe through the bottom of his glass.

  “I think my dad, being responsible for what happened to him…” His sinuses filled, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve never wanted to be responsible for someone again. Money, I get. People, I just hurt.”

  “And…having sex with me?” She refocused him on her original question. “Made you feel like you were responsible for me?”

  “No. It made me… I don’t know exactly.” He swore under his breath. “It’s not like I’ve ever seen a therapist.” He was silent for a long stretch, attempting to work it all out in his head. “All I know is, I woke up this morning and remembered I had to work with you—that being employed by me is your livelihood. Though none of this was entirely conscious thought at the time, I think I knew I’d fucked up with someone I cared about, and I panicked.”

  Georgia took a big bite of ice cream and washed it down with another sip of brandy. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she steeled herself to tell him something important. In the end, all she said was, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I could be the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

  “Hey.” He took her hand in his, made her look at him. “I may not seem like it, but I generally know what I’m doing. What I want.”

  He didn’t understand her sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprecation, but now that he’d recognized the opportunity to have something real with someone real, he was jumping in with both feet. No regrets. Provided Georgia was on board now that he’d declared his feelings like a lovesick moron.

  Squeezing her hand, he asked, “So what do you say to a clandestine, decidedly nonpublic affair with yours truly?”

  He mentally rolled his eyes at himself.

  Romance, thy name is Wells.

  Not.

  Georgia chewed her lip and slowly released it. She nodded, seemingly to herself, before she answered. “My answer is still yes.”

  Well, she hadn’t said she was falling in love with him too, but she hadn’t run screaming or tossed him out on his ass either. It was a good start.

  “What were you planning to do today?” he asked.

  Her gaze shifted from his face to the television peeking from a partially opened armoire across the room. “I was going to watch The Philadelphia Story, get tossed, and eat myself into a stupor.”

  The slight accent to her reply made him look at her askance. “Sometimes, I swear you sound exactly like a cross between Katharine Hepburn and Gigi Montrose.”

  “I—” She reddened as she stuttered. “I spent the first fourteen years of my life in London.”

  “Ah…” That made sense. He poured her more brandy. “The accent’s sexy.”

  “Really?” Her smile threatened to inebriate him more thoroughly than the alcohol he’d imbibed.

  “Very.” He leaned in to brush her lips with a soft kiss. When he leaned back, he considered her for a moment before asking, “So your dad is the reason you don’t have a string of boyfriends in your past?”

  She blushed and picked at the coverlet. “I walked in on him so many times. I just couldn’t stomach the idea of someone using me the way he used those women. He made it clear that if push came to shove, he’d choose his trysts over me, so I left.” She looked up, an unexpected expression of hope and affection shining in her eyes. “You’re the first man I ever really wanted to touch me. The first one who made me feel like being sexy wasn’t a weapon or an insult.”

  Though Sid had told him as much about her past this morning and how to best get around her guard, her confession wrapped his heart in a tidy bow. He was hers for the taking. Unable to respond without making a complete ass of himself, he leaned in and captured her lips in a tender kiss.

  “I’m glad,” he murmured, finding his words and pulling back to search her gaze. “I like that I made you feel those things. And I’d like to take it a little more slowly now. To let us both savor them.” He smiled ruefully. “This is a little new for me too.”

  “I promise not to make out with you during the movie then.” She grinned at him with the same goofy, dreamy look she’d had on her face when he’d entered his kitchen earlier this morning. “That is if you want to stay and watch.”

  He shoved down panic and replaced the emotion with deliberate flirtation. “I don’t have any pajamas.”

  “I have an extra nightgown, and one extra-long, extra-large kitten T-shirt Sid got me as a gag gift for Christmas last year.” She pretended to measure him with her eyes, then nodded. “I think it’ll fit.”

  He stroked his chin, considering. “How about I just go naked?”

  “Then I’d feel overdressed.” She eyed the DVD box on the nightstand. “And I don’t think C.K. Dexter Haven would approve if our happy ending came before his.”

  Peter cleared the tray from the bed and placed it on the floor. “You get the cookies. I’ll run upstairs for pajama bottoms.”

  On his trip back down from his penthouse, he whistled a tune to distract himself from his nerves. He was doing this. Really doing this. Thanks to Sid. Replaying his conversation with the man, he realized the fellow really was a good guy. And a good friend to Georgia.

  His parting words— “She likes you. A lot. You like her. Give it a chance.”—played like a mantra, over and over, getting him through the ride uptown to visit Georgia and through the first few minutes of their conversation. No doubt about it, that man deserved a raise.

  * * * *

  “I’m out of my mind.”

  “And this is different how?” Muffled typing sounds spoke loudly of Sid’s preoccupation.

  “I have to tell him. Before this goes any further.” Georgia paced at the foot of her bed, one ear out for Peter’s return.

  “Probably.”

  “What do you think he’ll say?”

  “I think he’ll fire you. Possibly fuck you.” He laughed, as if to himself. “From what you say, the man buries all his emotions with sex. Then maybe, eventually, he’ll forgive you.”

  Georgia cringed. “Great. Thanks for the reassurance.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who decided to fall in love with the man.”

  “I am not in love with him.”

  “Sure. And my ass farts gold coins.”

  “It does not. You live in the Bronx, and I’ve been with you after a Boston bean supper. Remember? And there was no pot of gold at the end of your…rainbow.”

  At the sound of the key in her front door, she looked over her shoulder and cupped the phone receiver. “I’m giving it one week. Next Monday, after Christmas, I’m telling him. I can’t lie anymore.”

  “Why not tell him now?”

  By tell him now, she knew Sid meant that she shouldn’t get invested in case Peter wasn’t willing to forgive her. Knowing what she knew about him, she wished she’d never written that stupid column. Now that he knew her, however, if she confessed, he might forgive her. Maybe. Right?

  “One week,” she said aloud. “I don’t want to ruin his Christmas…and God, Sid, for just one week I want the fairy tale.”

  “Which fairy tale, Georgie, because you’re no Cinderella. Choose wisely here, because you’re in danger of having a wooden nose long enough to draw the attention of the US Forestry Service.”

  She snorted and secretly cringed.

  Peter’s footfalls grew louder.

  “Must dash. See you tomorrow.” She hung up, cutting off Sid’s “Georgie, wait!”

  When she turned, phone in her hand, Peter stood in her bedroom doorway. Shirtless, wearing only cotton watchmen-plaid pajama bottoms, he clu
tched a bottle of champagne. He held it up, gold foil glinting in the overhead lights. “Care to mix your alcohol?”

  “Only if you hold my hair while I puke.” Ew. That had to be the brandy talking.

  He frowned and lowered the bottle as he stepped in the room.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, settling on the bed and getting comfortable against her abundant pillows, “I’ll do what I have to, but I’d rather leave the bodily functions until at least the third date.”

  Giving herself time to recover from the social faux pas, Georgia lowered the shades and queued up the movie. As the FBI warning and previews rolled, she lowered the lights and took the champagne from his hands. Placing the bottle on the nightstand next to his head, she looked down at him, considering. Hands behind his head, legs stretched out, he presented a picture of masculine perfection. His heavy-lidded gaze and the shift of his hips said he’d noticed her perusal. Whether they were waiting or not, his body responded, as did hers.

  Leaning down, she pressed her lips against his, tentative at first; then, when he didn’t shy away or attempt to take control, she grew a little bolder. As an experiment, she flicked her tongue along the seam of his mouth before pushing inside. Throughout the kiss, he kept his hands laced behind his head and reclined on the pillows. As she bettered her angle and ran her fingers through his hair, she felt his jaw tighten and his biceps strain with the effort it took him to remain a passive participant, but he didn’t stop her and the kiss didn’t end until she lifted her head.

  “Do you really want to watch a movie?” she asked, a little breathless.

  Pupils blown, his labored breath matching hers, he regarded her. “No…but let’s. I liked your idea. The one about not making out.”

  She swallowed her disappointment and nodded. “Okay.”

  When she attempted to straighten and move away, he took hold of her hand. “Hey.”

  Pausing, she awaited his explanation. His thumb drew lazy circles over her wrist. Even this simple touch made her insides melt. How could she want him so badly? So soon?

  “I want to do things right this time.” His soft smile spoke volumes about his vulnerability. “No sex today.”

  Closing her eyes, she felt her knees grow weak. She might die if she had to wait to touch him again, and who said they’d even have time to see one another before she kept her promise to herself to reveal her identity to him?

  Despite her need and her misgivings, she licked her lips and replied, “Okay. But I’m going to try to change your mind after dinner tonight.” She leveled a pleading stare at him. “Okay?”

  The smile that gradually lit up his face reminded her of sunshine muscling through the clouds on a chilly day. Tugging her down to him, he threaded the fingers of his free hand in the hair at her nape.

  “Okay.”

  Nibbling at her lips, he coaxed her mouth open and explored her with the brandy-sweet heat of his tongue. Deliberate and gentle, his kiss was no less sensual than usual. This time, however, he imbued the gesture with all the intimacy he’d previously withheld. In every ounce of slanting pressure he applied, she felt the tender regard and hopeful promise of true emotion. Of love.

  Georgia sighed and leaned forward, one palm coming to rest against Peter’s chest. His heart thundered against her hand, the only indication that he was anything but calm and in control. Whether his heart rate galloped out of fear or arousal—or perhaps both—she couldn’t say. On impulse, she lifted her head to scrutinize his face. His eyes fluttered open, his gaze meeting hers.

  “Are you frightened?” she asked.

  He blinked again, a little more rapidly this time, and pulled back a fraction. Hand falling away, he blew out a breath and crossed his arms over his chest. Cleared his throat. Looked away.

  “I guess I am.” His brow pulled tight before he met her gaze again. “Yes.”

  She straightened and gave him a soft smile. “Would it help you to know I enjoy it more when you take charge? Of the kissing and things, I mean?”

  His smile was relieved, to say the least. Everything about him seemed to relax, from the corners of his eyes to the muscles along his throat.

  “So you don’t mind?” He sat up against the pillows. “My taking control of things?”

  Brows lifted, she regarded him with a flirty smirk. “Not sex. Everything else I’m going to fight you for.”

  He nodded, slow and deliberate, slanting her a look that said bring it on.

  “Movie?” she asked, grinning wide.

  “Movie,” he affirmed.

  Remote in hand, she crawled to her side of the bed. Not wanting to be pushy, letting him take the physical lead he seemed to crave, she waited for him to put his arm around her and draw her close. When he did, she nestled into his side, one palm resting on his bare, muscled chest and her head on his shoulder. His breath tickled her hair as be pressed a kiss to her crown.

  “My mother would’ve had a problem with the word ‘stink’ too if we’d been wealthy, I think,” Peter mused some moments later as Katharine Hepburn’s character Tracy bickered with her younger sister, Dinah.

  Georgia giggled. “I like Dinah.”

  “Me too.” Peter’s voice rumbled through his chest, into her ear.

  They watched another few minutes, and Tracy arrived at the stables to meet her fiancé. Tracy lifted an issue of Spy magazine off her Uncle Willie, then proceeded to admonish her husband-to-be when he looked for their names inside. Georgia tensed when Tracy got to the part about letting complete strangers inside her life. Her home. To spread gossip. Then she remembered the rest of the plot…about the undercover gossip columnists.

  Had her subconscious gone completely berserk? What was it thinking suggesting this movie to her? And with Peter here? Her mind raced as she tried to think of a way to get out of watching the rest of the film.

  “I hate the press,” Peter muttered, then looked down. “Present company excepted.”

  “Thanks.”

  His assessment did nothing to assuage her fears. Jimmy Stewart’s tabloid journalist character came on to the screen. Usually she adored his part. Today, every time he opened his mouth, she just felt ill. Peter’s breath became shallow, and his pecs tensed under Georgia’s hand. She cleared her throat and adjusted her head on his chest. He shifted uncomfortably.

  “God,” he growled. “If some ink-stained excuse for a journalist invaded my home undercover like that…”

  Georgia sat up and felt around blindly for the remote.

  “Let’s get lunch. I’m hungry,” she said with false brightness, flicking on the bedside light.

  “You sure?” Peter blinked against the sudden illumination and propped himself up. “Was I talking too much? I do that—play peanut gallery.”

  She scrubbed at her face with both hands. “No. No. I’m just not in the mood for lovers’ quarrels at the moment.”

  Peter rubbed her upper arm in a soothing gesture. “Sorry.”

  Georgia bit her lip. She should be apologizing to him, not the other way around. Clasping his hand, she halted the motion. “You like Chinese?”

  “I seem to remember Sid saying something about you enjoying it,” he offered.

  Taking the opportunity to put some distance between them so she could clear her head, she bounded off the bed. “I’ll order. You find something to watch that doesn’t involve gossip, newspapers, politics, or romance.”

  “That only leaves porn,” he called after her.

  She stuck her head in the room, grinning. “You sound like Sid.”

  “Well, that’s a step in the right direction,” he said, remote poised midair as he regarded her. “Right?”

  Her brain briefly flirted with the idea of what it might be like to date Sid, and an involuntary shudder overtook her.

  “I can’t believe I just went there,” she said, making a face.

  “Where?” Light flickered as he flipped through the channels.

  “Dating Sid.”

  It was his turn
to don a bemused frown. After a moment, he shook his head. “Can’t picture it.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.” She ducked out in search of her paper menus.

  If she thought Peter was tough to handle, she couldn’t imagine what keeping one step ahead of Sid might be like. Then again, she’d never had any secrets from her best friend. She’d never had to.

  As she ordered her favorites along with a few new dishes from the Happy Duck—whom she’d always doubted was happy about having anything to do with a Chinese menu—she contrasted what being best friends with Peter would be like versus being best friends with Sid. Never having had a serious romantic relationship, she had no other basis for comparison.

  Peter snuck up on her after she’d ordered, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She jumped but leaned back into him when he nuzzled her ear.

  “What are you thinking about?” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. “You’ve been staring into space for at least two minutes.”

  She blushed to know he’d been watching her, then sighed. “Honestly?”

  “No. Lie to me. It turns me on.” His wry tone made her snicker.

  She pressed her backside against his groin and moaned appreciatively. “Apparently it does.”

  His answering hiss of pleasure made her nipples stand up and take notice. Warmth surged to her clit, swelling her pussy with need.

  “You really want to wait?” she asked, then pulled her lower lip between her teeth.

  His hands skimmed her sides, moving toward her breasts. She arched. The position rested her head against his shoulder, where she could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat.

  He dropped his hands and stepped away. Cleared his throat. “Yes. Let’s wait.”

  A little hurt, she faced him. “Okay. Not a big deal.”

  “Hey.” He cupped her face with his hand and moved closer. “I don’t want to…treat this like it’s just sex.”

  She knew that. Knowing what she knew, however, she wondered if that was all they’d ever have. All they had time for—just sex—before the walls of their cobbled-together relationship tumbled down.